Vol 1 No 1 2007
Lago di Como
I search for a stone to sit on,
So I can look down into a valley and write lines
about a house I enter to find you.
I try to keep walking but after the storm
branches flood the path,
make me squint and crouch.
What I cannot peer through is memory,
a girl in a rosebush
thighs stuck with petals, scratch marks scarcely visible.
What floats into view
is a door I cannot go through.
But I want to go on and on until I reach you.
At the threshold of the house
I imagine fishhooks tethered to sunlight,
an old shirt hanging on a line.
It is after your bath,
your hair is wet and you are in front
of an oval mirror, rimmed in silver.
You are combing your hair.
O for an afternoon, eyes wide open,
filled with the moisture of love.
Meena Alexander